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“You need to turn on the camera and put tape over my mouth.”
“Why?”
“The less I say, the more believable it will be. I could slip up and say the wrong thing. We need me to look defeated.”
I place tape over his mouth and then walk to my cell phone and hit record.
“I-I’m sorry. May God forgive me,” I utter as I turn my back on the recording.
Standing over Hank, he’s shaking his head from side to side, eyes wide as his muffled words fill the silence of the warehouse. Slowly, I raise my arm. Hank struggles with his binds, straining against the gaffer tape. Hell, even I believe his act.
Hank looks genuinely scared.
Swiftly, I plunge the knife through the air and hit him almost in the exact spot where I cut his shirt. Hank jerks, and I push him back down in the seat. My scream echoes in the warehouse, then my breath rushes out of me. Staring down at Hank, his breaths come out in puffs against the tape on his mouth, and his nostrils flare. We stay locked like that for what feels like an age, then he blinks slowly, and I pull the knife away. Blood spurts up and over me, some hitting my face, and I stagger backward. Hank’s head falls back, and his eyes stay open, staring at nothing on the ceiling. Dropping the knife, I use the hem of my shirt to wipe my face as I stumble back to the camera and the off button. Even after it’s not filming, I stay there, ragged breaths coming in and out.
Turning, I look back at Hank. He hasn’t moved. His eyes are still open, and from here, it looks like he isn’t breathing. Scared, I run to him and rip off the tape.
“Good job, Simon.”
He pats my shoulder. The gaffer tape is hanging off his hand.
“You’re free?”
“You didn’t thinkI couldn’tget out of that, did you? You’d need a whole lot more to hold me, even in my weakened condition.”
Using his penknife, I cut the rest of his binds. My hands are shaking badly, and Hank reaches out, taking it from me.
“It’s the adrenaline. You’re in shock. I’m okay, Simon.”
My legs give out, and I find myself on my hands and knees on the floor.
“Deep breaths. Think about something good.”
I can hear him moving around and what sounds like water being poured onto the ground. I have no idea how long I stayed in the position. It’s not until Hank’s hand lands on my shoulder that I look up. All around the chair is a pool of blood. Hank helps me to my feet, a tight smile on his face.
“I’m sorry, Simon.”
I frown at him. In his hands is a bag of blood. Hank squeezes it, sending a jet of the red liquid over me, my clothes, shoes, and hands.
“Arterial spray, and you had to clean up the body.”
Nodding, I say nothing. The blood is warm, smells coppery, and feels sticky.
“Clean yourself up. There’s a towel over there.” Hank points to the small table.
Sitting on top of it is a white towel. Wiping my face, the towel soon changes color, and as best I can, I wipe my hands.
Apart from the deepening bruises on his face, he looks fine. I can feel his eyes on me, and a shiver runs up my spine. I’m not sure I could ever kill someone for real.Thisfeels real, and I’m sick to my stomach.
Sucking in a breath, I turn to face him. “What now?”
“You only stabbed me once. You’re going to have to tell Stonewall you stabbed me a couple more times.” Hank looks around the warehouse. “And you need to drag me toward the door. We need to leave a trail of blood.”
Hank lies on the floor next to the chair, and I awkwardly drag him toward the door and through it. He doesn’t help. Hank is a dead weight in my hands. It’s not until we’re outside that he stands.
He looks excited, as though this is a pleasant experience for him. It makes me wonder what demons hide beneath the surface.
“You need to deliver the footage to Stonewall. Download it to a USB. Bag up your clothes. Change.” He puts both his hands on my shoulders. “You’re doing great. It’s over. All you need to do now is sell it to Stonewall.”
